sábado, 4 de outubro de 2025

if hell is where hope is sent to die

to limbo I shan't go

my knees dread the jump, skip and hoop rope rodeo

released from the coffin my heart has been set loose

signed and past-dated, gated and chained no longer

a trail ran cold, a chill lingers in the air

oh good lord those howls aren't dogs at all?

or surely the domesticated sort

how many bodies can my attic conceal

limps reaching the ceilling in a messy senseless rebellion

against space, a disgrace of unfanthomabal proportions

sinners deserve the fire but times are hard, oh so tense

economy runs wide and large and we cannot spare further pyre 

the magical number is the unsettling sort

not quite the power struggle of the narrow airways

brushed off whenever the party has died down

and we greet for one, last, time: farewell

snap, crack, tap; make them feel defeated

you are what you eat after all, not what you fuck (up)

good lord they think they can outrun me, aha

to smother is to regain control by borrowing time

to lie is to sound less ingrateful to the poor sods pleading for air

risen to dive in a pursuit anew

an ocean of souls betrays the lack of oxygen received

saturated by lines afloat, reeking of troubling desires

perfume, meant to seduce and attract

ensares, traps just the same

bones feel like porcelane when the call goes adrift

do I dare look back at what I have become,

is there, ahead, past the blurry horizon

precipice or crossroad;

salvation or dammnation

our forebearers do call, warn and protest

choice words we adamant steel ourselves again in natural progress

an irrelevant attempt at biting back in anger, protesting a fury

now dull, now echo.

you dont know what you have

until you lose it

isn't that a trial that fire cannot erase. 

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